Natural Defenses
by Glitterglue
Summary: Ryro. Rogue and Pyro talk about weddings, olive branches, and what it means to just be Marie and John. X3 spoilers. FINAL part up.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: not mine

A/N: Ryro makes my freakin day.

She went there to think and to slowly get drunk. It wasn't the sort of place where she'd be disturbed. Whether it be by young frat boys looking for someone to take home with them or older, lonely men, too intoxicated and desperate to see how pathetic they looked.

It was quiet, never a bar brawl or drunken shouting match to be seen. It was just a regular bar with regular owners and patrons, a fairly new jukebox in the corner with somewhat new songs and a seemingly never ending flow of liquor. Scotch, in her case. _It's a southern thing_, she'd tell people when they shot her an inquisitive glance at her choice of beverage. It was really a Logan thing, just like her occasional burning need for a good cigar, a habit that won her even more inquisitive glances whenever she pulled one out.

Tonight she's thinking about the cure. Which, to be perfectly honest, was what she thought about most of the times she had come to this particular pub, that particular booth.

She had come there the night she and Bobby had broken up. Not from fights or conflicts or the even present 'Kitty Issue' but from good, old fashion simply not loving each other anymore.

She had come here also the night that Logan came back, and this time to stay. He announced to her, in front of Jean and Scott's gravestones, that he would now be a permanent part of the X-men, fighting the fight, fighting _Jean's_ fight. And he had still called her 'kid.' She spent that night nursing beer after beer in the back booth, her booth, not out of sadness or loss, but simply to say good-bye to her childhood and the last of her childhood fantasies.

But tonight, this night, was decision night, just as it was every three months. To cure or not to cure. To touch or not to touch. The syringe was waiting on the table, next to her scotch neat, waiting to be used. Waiting for her to make her damn mind, yet again.

That's how he found her, a quarter to 12:00 on a Tuesday night, staring at the fake wooden table, slouched against the worn booth back. She looked small. She looked resigned. She looked like she had the first day he had met her: shaken and alone and very, very tired. He realizes, with a grimace, as he moves to buy a beer, that she looks like him now. Him with no more snarky comments and grand schemes and righteous causes. Both of them, drained from the fight, the everyday fight.

He slides into the seat across for hers, drink in hand, and chooses to not be offended when she lookes annoyed at the sight of him. Really, could she be blamed? No, he knew that.

"Marie," he states lightly, before swigging from his beer.

"Pyro," she respondes just as nonchalant. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth and rolls his eyes.

"We aren't in school anymore, Marie. We aren't fighting a war anymore, you can call me John."

"Is that supposed to be some goddamned privilege?" she hisses.

"No," he grounds out, "it's supposed to be a goddamned olive branch." He reaches into his pocket, running his fingers over the comforting planes of his lighter. He would need all the comfort he could get to survive this conversation unscathed. She looks up at him with sparks in her eyes and for a moment he let himself nurture the idea that she had his mutation, and not her cursed poisonous skin, that she was looking at him with flames and fire.

"Where you been, John? Last I heard about you, you were runnin' with your tail between your legs from Alcatraz, but that was five years ago, surely you've been up to somethin'."

He smiles snidely and pulls out his lighter, flicking to life a flame and letting it run subtlety over his fingers. "Oh, I've been around. But what about you? Last I heard you were waiting in line for the cure so you could finally make it with Drake. Too bad about it not being forever though, isn't it? How'd that play out? Did you start sucking the life out of Bobby while he was in the middle of fucking you?"

"That's enough, John!" she nearly shouts with barely checked anger. Her reaction surprises him and the blue flames that were licking their way across his palm jump before he folds his fingers into a fist, snuffing out the fire.

"Sorry," he mutters, taking another pull from the bottle, not really meaning the apology at all, knowing that she knows that too.

"How is the Iceman?" he asks after only a few seconds of quiet, and she would have smiled a little inwardly, remembering his well known hatred of awkward silences, if she wasn't still seething from his previous comment.

She pushes some of her hair behind her ear and considers her words before answering. "He's good," she eventually says, "He misses you, although I can't see why, you're still as much of as asshole as ever."

"He said that, that he misses me?" he asks, trying his hardest to sound disinterested and hoping to God that she'll play along.

"No, but, you know Bobby, he never was real good at hiddin' stuff. He doesn't have to say it." He peers down at her ring finger, bare, and notices the needle for the first time.

"You haven't married him yet?" he asks through a suddenly dry throat. He shakes his head to rid himself of the onslaught of sudden and unwelcome hopes. "Hm, maybe you like it when guys are assholes, that's why Bobby hasn't managed to drag you to the alter."

She purses her lips and chuckles a little bitterly and pulls a wedding invitation out of her purse.

"Huh, Kitty. Who saw that coming?" he says sarcastically. "He never was right for you," he adds as he hands back the cream colored paper. She refuses to take it.

"Keep it," she tells him, "I hear weddings are great places to extend olive branches." He nods, folds it half, and slips it into his pocket.

"Is it going to wear off soon?" he questions, glaring indicatively at the syringe so she doesn't have to ask what he's talking about. She doesn't really even have to answer.

"Are you going to take it again?" Again, no clarification is needed.

She merely swallows the remainder of her scotch with one harsh jerk of the arm and quickly injects herself while the burn of the liquor can mask the sting of the needle. He can read the meaning in her actions and expression. _Take that_, she's saying, _take your fanatical ideas of purity and fuck off._ But he doesn't appear upset or disgusted, as she expected he would, he just looks calm and a little bit like he's just proven himself right about something he's always wondered about.

He rakes his fingers through his now all naturally brown hair, and frowns.

"Do you ever wonder why Bobby wasn't enough for you, even after you had the cure?"

"No," she's being honest, he can feel it. It's the way she meets his gaze unflinchingly. This girl, no more mutation, no more natural defenses, still staring him down like she could remove him from her presence with the blink of the eye or a flippant hand gesture.

"Because he's not like you. He's not like us. Cure or no cure, we're still broken and Bobby's still whole. And that means he could never really touch you, even when he was."

"You're saying we're the same, you and me? You're saying you can really touch me?" He thinks it's supposed to sound haughty and facetious, but they can both hear the hope in her voice.

He jerks open his lighter again, ignites his hand, and reaches out to grab hers just as he extinguishes his. His touch is still hot and she fidgets with discomfort for a few seconds as his hold on her slowly loses it's heat, but none of it's intensity.

"I can burn you, too." he whispers. She thinks that his voice sounds like hot coals.

"Why are you here, John? What do you really want from me."

"You have that Plus One yet for the Iceman's wedding?"

"Not yet." Unflinching gaze and honestly again, he could get used to that.

"My place or yours?" he asks the question before he knows it's on his tongue.

"Mine."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: not mine

A/N: ryro and reviews make my freaking day. i think there will be at least one more chapter.

It occurs to him, as he hears a crescendo of halfheartedly concealed whispers rise around him as he sits at Marie's assigned table for the reception, that coming to Bobby Drake's wedding was probably a bad idea. It would have probably been a bad idea for him to show up on the premises of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters again in his life at all, much less on the so-called most important day of two of it's star pupils lives.

They sat in the back of the small chapel, nestled in the trees behind the gardens, for the ceremony. A tactical move on Marie's part. The whole time John watched, alternating between a sinking dread that Bobby would notice him and amusement at the sight of not just Peter, who was colossal as ever, but also the Wolverine, dressed in tux's as Bobby's best men. He just needed some kind of sign from any of them. Something to show that his presence was a welcome one, or at the very least, a tolerated one.

It wasn't until _May I Present To You:Robert and Katherine Drake_ and they came bounding down the aisle with blind joy, Kitty so overwhelmed that she kept phasing through the floor, that he saw him. Bobby's steps faltered and for a moment it looked like he might trip, but he was able to right himself, still walking, his gaze never leaving that of his former best friend. And then he saw just who John was sitting with, just whose shoulders his arm was around, and his hold on Kitty's hand tightened, and he pulled her close to him as they exited the church.

And that was it, no yelling, no screaming, no turning him into ablock of ice and then shattering him all over the chapel floors. He was gone, not to reappear until the reception, and in the mean time, leaving John to the glares and whispers of his former teachers and peers.

_ The audacity of him. To show up here. To show up here with_ **_her_**.

Violence would have been better than that. But other than a brief run in with Logan (_"If you hurt her..." the older man snarled as he pinned John up against the wall near where Marie was going to the bathroom. "I know, Wolfman," he answered tiredly, "It'll be slow and painful."_) everyone was keeping their hands to themselves, it was maddening.

He's broken from his musings by a sympathetic hand on his knee from under the table. It squeezes and she smiles at him warmly.

"You're bein' a very good boy."

"Will I get a reward later?" he asks, sulking.

She rolls her eyes at him and begins to say something, but it's lost in the roar of applause that's spreading towards them.

"They're comin' out," Marie leans into his ear and warns him.

"And I'm going to take a walk," he tells her once it's quiet enough to talk again. She sends him a disapproving look, but by then he's already making his way into the intimidating structure of the mansion, telling himself that he's imagining the icy glare that he can feel on his back.

It's dark inside, silent, all the kids gone home for summer, all the sedentary inhabitants outside enjoying the festivities. He pauses by the kitchen and isn't at all surprised that it still doesn't contain alcohol, instantly regretting not grabbing a beer on his way out of the reception. He brushes his fingers over the foos ball table that was probably the genesis of his rivalry with Drake. That thought makes him want to torch the thing, but he swiftly and forcefully crushes that desire. He's not that kind of man anymore, he can control his temper. She helping with that, his want to be the kind of man whose worth it. The kind of man who will prove the Wolverine wrong.

He's thinking all these things, stopped, staring at the wall and it's several minutes before he realizes what he's staring at. It that trick panel, the one that opens up to reveal a secret tunnel to the garages. The one he, Marie, Bobby, and Logan had used to escape the attack some six years earlier. It's a night that plays over in his head a lot, the real beginning of his descent. He stares at the wall and feels that panic and terror again. The confusion and heart stopping knowledge that he's not safe in the one place he could always be safe. He stares at the wall because he's scared that if he looks anywhere else, there'll be a masked man aiming a gun at him. He frowns sourly at himself. Here he is, a man of 24, still fighting the fears of a boy.

"I still have nightmares about that night," a voice says from somewhere in the twilight behind him. He doesn't need to turn around to see who it is, but he does anyone, he figures he owes him that. He's still in his tux, but the bow tie is off, wrapped around the fingers of his left hand. In his right hand is a mostly full bottle of champagne.

"Congratulations, Iceman, it was a really nice ceremony," he says it sincerely, because he is sincere, which is something new for both of them.

"Thanks, Allerdyce." Bobby replies. John can't help the small smile that cracks his lips apart. Allerdyce. Sure it's not John, but it's not Pyro either. Bobby moves closer to him, so he can hand him the bottle and he swigs out of it thankfully.

"So...there's like thirty people out there who want to kick your ass for showing up here, with my ex-girlfriend to boot." Bobby informs him, smiling crookedly. John snorts contemptuously, not surprised.

"I kinda saw that coming. And I know, you know, that this wasn't the best of ways for you to find out, about me and her. And it wasn't planned or anything, I didn't go looking for her. She was just there all of a sudden, it just happened."

"How long?" He wants Bobby to look jealous and in a way, he does think he is.

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters."

"Almost two months."

He nods. "When we were young, I thought I was going to marry her."

"And I thought I would be your best man," he murmurs, his throat constricting so it hurts for him to breathe, from the naked honesty of the statement and the sudden knowledge that he and the man sitting next to him will never, _ever_ get the things they wanted when they were young. Yes, they have new desires now, but it's never all the same.

Bobby looks at him contemplatively and sadly, like he's waiting for John to say more. "Why did you show up here, Allerdyce?"

"I had some things to say to you."

The blonde shrugs, and says genuinely, "I'm not interested in your apology, I forgave you a long time ago. And I'm not interested in your excuses either, they'll just piss me off."

"How about my reasons, will those interest you?" he demands more harshly than he wants to. Bobby just nods.

"I was young and scared. That's is. I was young and scared and angry and that's all I can tell you. And I'm not apologizing, because I'm not saying I was wrong. I may not have been right, but I wasn't wrong either. I was just...that's who I was then, but it's not who I am anymore, and that's what I came here to say to you," he finishes his speech with a defiant look at both Bobby and the wall, his fists clenched.

"And that's supposed to make it all okay? You're not that man anymore so now we're squared off and everything? Do you think it works like that, John?" _John_.

"It is what it is, Bobby. I can't change the past. But it got us here, standing in a dark hallway on your wedding day, talking at least, no murder attempts yet. And me and her, we're really good, so I don't know, I don't think I even want to."

"All this shit between you and me, it's not just gonna work itself out."

"I know." John responded. "We have to work it out ourselves."

Twenty minutes later, after a mildly concerned Marie and a more panicked Kitty had converged, neither able to find their significant other, they stumble across a sight that might have been ridiculous if they both didn't understand the deeper meaning behind it.

John and Bobby, standing in front drive of the school, taking turns drinking champagne and freezing and burning the poor, abused foos ball table.

"What do you think that's even called?" Kitty whispered to her friend, careful to not draw the attention of the men.

"I think that's called 'closure,' " Marie replied.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: not mine

A/n: Someone asked last chapter how the cure worked in this story. Since at the end of X3 we see Magneato moving that metal chess peice, I assumed the cure wasn't forever. The three month expiration date was just something I made up in my head.

He's pretty sure she was joking. Pretty sure. But pretty sure is a far cry from positive, or even mostly sure. Half sure. _What kind of percentage does 'pretty' even fall under_, he wonders. More or less than 50? Maybe she was mostly joking, but then, that still left some seriousness, and it was that possible seriousness that led to him walking by himself down to the quiet, neighborhood pub that had reunited them some 6 months earlier. And things had been going so good.

The wedding had been one of those good things, surprisingly enough. In the 16 odd weeks since, Marie had dragged him to a different restaurant a total of 4 times, where she and Kitty, who was there with her new husband, would proceed to be completely shocked to see one another. The host would usually look on in confusion, since either Marie or Kitty would have earlier phoned in a reservation for four. John and Bobby never called them on it, to be honest he was relieved to be seeing the Iceman regularly enough to melt some of the tension that clung to them and not have to be the one to instigate the meetings. He could tell it was good for her too, just having another woman to talk to, even if it was Kitty and all the baggage that brought with it. And, after every dinner, Marie would always reward him handsomely for 'bein' a good boy.'

His stop at the bar is a short one. The bartender looks at him oddly at his request but recognizes him well enough to know he isn't a lunatic drifter. He simply nods at John, takes his twenty, and comes back a few minutes later with a crate full of empty bottles. The younger man thanks him, before leaving.

In the half a year he had been living with her, (because it had really been that long, there was no transition period, no dating and courtship. Just him waking up that first morning, walking into the kitchen, and seeing her instantly point towards the door and say, "We're out of milk."_ We're_.) she had taken the cure a total of three times. Compared to the emotional turmoil they had both been in the first time he had witnessed the act, the second time was painless.

He was in the shower and when he got out, there was an empty needle in the garbage can next to his old razor and she had a band aid on the inside of her left arm. They didn't talk about it. He could tell she didn't want to, he could tell that the decision tore her up every time she had to make it. Sacrificing a large part of her identity for the comfort of intimate, physicalcompanionship. He likes to think that when she was alone, that choice ripped her apart with dull, jagged fingernails. But now that she has him, it's more like a clean, sharp incision with a thin blade. It hurts, just differently. Just less.

That night, he woke her up from where she had been dozing on the couch in the fetal position by taking the band aid off of her arm. She watched with hooded eyes as he brushed his fingers over the tiny red dot that allowed him to do so, and kissed her hand.

"I should hate you for this," he told her. She just bit her lip and nodded and he could see her eyes fill with tears that never actually fell. Because he should hate her for it, but doesn't. Because he should hate her for it and doesn't and that means she shouldn't be allowed to hate herself for it either.

But today had been the third and he did not have the luxury of being in the shower. He had walked in from a trip to the convenience store down the street (milk again) and there she was, standing over the kitchen sink, pushing the hated liquid into her veins while her eyes pushed out bitter tears. He was rooted there, watching her, knowing she knew he was, while she finished with the injection and cleaned herself up. She turned around and walked to the couch with surgical precision. And then she broke.

He sat with her for the better part of an hour while she cried. He thanked God that she wasn't hysterical or crazed, only very, very sad. He let her curl into his lap and he stroked her back and fingered the white streak of hair that refused all dyes and forced himself to not say it: He should hate her for this. For making him sit on _their_ couch, in _their_ apartment, feeling _love_ and _sympathy_ for her and _regret_ and _guilt_ and _pain_ for all the things he can't change or fix.

He can't fix her. Because they're both broken. And he wants them to stay that way.

When she managed to pull all the loose threads of herself together and rubbed her face like she had just woken up from an unsettling dream, she turned to him and smiled carefully, and said, "I hate needles now. You should've seen me gettin' my birth control shot last week, I nearly fainted."

He smiled back at her because it seemed like the only proper response and replied, "Well, I'm sure you'd rather beuntouchable than knocked up."

She extricated her body from his and shrugged in a noncommittal way and said as she moved to the bathroom, "I dunno, I'm not gettin' any younger."

He ends up in a park a dozen blocks away. He sets up half the empty bottles on a fence a couple hundred yardsoff to the sideand knocks each of them off with carefully aimed fireballs. The rest he chucks into the air as hard as he can before blowing them up with bursts of heat. It's a good way to blow off steam, pun somewhat intended.

_I'm not gettin' any younger_. What the hell is that supposed to mean? What the hell is that supposed to _imply_? Marriage? Things had been going so good. What was wrong with the commitment they had now? She knew he wasn't going anywhere.

But did she really? He never said it, instead he let his actions speak. And what had his actions said tonight? Sneaking out to blow up bottles while she was in the shower? How does that look? _It looks a lot like leaving her in a jet near Alkali Lake whileyou're safe in a helicopter, flying away with the enemy_, he realizes. _That's what it looks like_.

She's pissed as hell when he gets home. Standing with her arms crossed in the living room, glaring daggers. She opens her mouth to shout any number of curses and lectures but he doesn't let her get that far. He simply strides up to her and grips her face gently but firmly and looks her in dead in the eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"What?"

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to run again. Ever."

"Promise?" shewhispers.

"Promise." And he means it. _Oh my God, what am I going to do_, he means it.

Like he thought, there was nothing wrong with the commitment they had now.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A.N: When I first started writing this, I intended for it to be an angsty yet postive Ryro story. I had no idea it would grow to contain any of the other chracters and how they deal with John's return but it's become that. I also didn't plan on all the emphasis on their names, this is all just kind of forming as I go. Please bare with me. Anyway, thanks to everyone who keeps baring with me. Part 4!

There's a blinking red '1' on the answering machine when they come in after their monthly dinner with Bobby and Kitty. It's still an awkward and tense affair, rife with thudding silences and glares, usually in John's direction, but at least he feels comfortable enough to give Kitty a hug when they arrive and Bobby now shakes his hand whenever they leave. And the women have stopped pretending their meetings are an accident, which is something of a victory for both the men.

Marie plops down on the couch and begins the complicated procedure of taking her strapped sandals off while he presses the playback button. The voice that comes over the line surprises her enough to make her stop in her task and his hands still that are removing his dress shirt.

"Hello John, this is...," the voice falters for an instant, like she can't decide which name to give, so she settles for a compromise between the two, "...this is Storm Munroe. I have some things I'd really like to discuss with you, if that's alright. If you could come by the mansion, that would, well, that'd be great. Any time tomorrow, I'll be available. Thank you. Bye...Oh! Tell Rogue I said 'Hi.' Okay...Good bye."

He raises his eyebrows at her and says curiously, "What the hell do you think that's about?"

Marie only shrugs and responds teasingly, "Maybe she wants to offer you a job."

He chuckles a bit before he realizes that maybe she's right, and then he starts to panic.

Ororo meets him at the front door and offers a firm handshake and a fairly believable smile as her welcome. He follows her back to her office, a cozy, corner room done in greens and browns, which he's glad to see isn't the Professor's. He doesn't know how he would handle being in that room again. He remembers the first time he was ever taken there, led by, ironically, Ororo. She probably doesn't remember that though, he decides, how many scared and sad kids, newly dropped off or thrown out, had she taken there over the years? _Too many_, he thinks, _more than her fair share_. And now she's the one they're being taken to.

"Thanks for coming, John," she tells him after they've both been seated and he's waved off her offers for tea or coffee.

"It's no problem, really, Ms. Munroe."

"Please, John, call me Storm."

"Can I call you Ororo?"

She grins stiffly, one of the fakest smiles he's ever seen, but as least her answer is honest, "No."

"Then I think I'll just stick to 'Ms. Munroe.' So, Ms. Munroe, let's just, you know, cut to the chase. I know this isn't a social call."

She purses her lips and he knows she wants to say something to the effect that he hasn't changed since he left at all. But she doesn't. She just shuffles some papers around on her desk and swallows.

"Fine. It has come to my attention that you're currently unemployed." He grimaces physically, a reaction to both the fact that it looks like Marie had been right and that such personal information is known by her, and the smug look on her face tells him that she notices.

"Really? And who told you that?"

"A woman never reveals her sources," she whispers jokingly.

"Kitty?" he groans.

"Of course. But don't be mad at her, she's not my spy, she's just a gossip," she reveals with more positive feeling than he thinks she should be allowed.

"And now you're offering me a job?" he asks with no small amount of disbelief.

"In a way. I'm offering the offer."

"I don't know if I'll _ever_ be that strapped for cash." And that's true, that he doesn't know, in the past six years he has never wanted for money.

In the beginning, after the courts released him with nothing but probation and community service, since he was a minor and there was no concrete evidence that he had done any of the Brotherhood's especially dirty work, he couldn't find a job to save his life or fill his belly. After being evicted from his dirty, yellow walled apartment, he became resolute to his fate. He had trudged slowly down to the corner ATM, planning on withdrawing his last $34 and buying a bus ticket to Westchester and to the mansion and to groveling in front of Ms.Ororo Munroe for sanctuary.

But that never happened, because there on his receipt, which he opted to print out of masochism, just to see the $0.00 remainder, was a new balance. Someone had deposited $10,000 into his bank account.

And has proceeded to do so ever since. His balance never falls below $50. He suspects it's Mr.Lensherr, considering his ideals of brotherhood and loyalty would have shamed the Mafia. But it's just as likely that it's Mystique. They shared an odd camaraderie while 'fighting the fight.' A blue, deadly mother figure that taught him control and how to survive and that he did have a place in the world. A place in what was coming. So that even if he couldn't control it, he could participate in it. He thinks about the look of desperate remorse, his silent apology, that he sent her way as he walked out of the prison truck, leaving her there to fend for herself, naked and human, with no more natural defenses. He remembers that moment whenever he sees that more money had been donated to the 'Keep John Allerdyce Alive and No Longer Requiring of a Job Fund,' so he chooses to believe she's the one. That it's a 'thank you' for caring enough to even look back as he walked away. It was more than Eric had spared her.

He thinks of this now and wonders why he feels uncomfortable calling anyone else by they're other names. They're just their mutant names, he knows, but he still just sees them as symbols of the past, of fighting and war and perceiving people as enemies when they should have been banding together. Of his youth and mistakes and arrogance. He wonders why he still calls Mystique that in his head and not Raven. He wonders about a lot of things.

"I figured your answer would be something like that," Ororo replied with a sigh. "But that's not the only thing I wanted to talk to you about. I'm considering asking Rogue, I mean, giving Rogue the same offer, an open invitation to come back here and work. I know she's well versed in medicine; we did give her the scholarship to go to nursing school. And if she accepts, that could create some...complicated situations in your relationship."

He looks up at her with a puzzled expression, unconsciously touching his four fingers to his thumb one by one; simultaneously regretting and grateful that he left his lighter in the car. Ororo just watches him, waiting for him to connect the dots. The atmosphere in the room shifts drastically when he does. If he were to look outside throughthe windows behind her, he would see dark clouds gathering slowly, an unintentional reaction on her part to his sudden change in demeanor.

"We could use your firepower," she says softly, unsure how he'll react.

"That's what I'd be? Your big guns? The traitor brought back into the fold?" he asks in a strangled voice. He eyes burn with forming tears and he scrubs his face with his hand in an effort to be rid of them.

"It wouldn't be like that, John."

He looks up at her sharply. "Then what would it be like, _Ororo_? I teach Phys. Ed. during the day and at night I go set shit on fire and come home and have my girlfriend patch me up? What the hell?" he shouts with frustration that has no outlet. "What the fucking hell? Who are you even fighting?"

"There's always going to be someone to fight," she says acidly.

He shakes his head wearily. "I can't answer for Marie and I don't assume to know how'd she feel about that kind of an offer but speaking for me, I say no thank you. I'm done choosing sides. When and if there's another war, I'll be here, ok? I'll stand with you if that's what's right. I'll bring back 'Pyro,' " His breath catches in a painful part of his throatand it honestly, truly, physically hurts for him to say it. Like his heart has turned into lead but it's still trying to beat and perform all it's usual functions. Like hislungs have been filled with cotton balls and thorns."But until then I can't...I can't. Okay?"

He stands up before she can respond and reaches out to shake her hand. "Thank you for the offer of an offer, Ms. Munroe. I'm sure we'll be in touch."

He goes home and climbs into bed with her, where she's sprawled reading a gossip rag. He lays his head on her stomach and feels like he's exhaling for the first time in hours as she threads her fingers in his hair.

"So what did Storm want?"

"Oh, you know, she just wanted to chat, catch up, get my apple pie recipe, that kind of stuff."

"John," she says with warning in her tone, her hands stilling in his hair.

He looks up at her and sighs, "Marie, whatever it was, I said 'no.' Whatever she asked, I couldn't do it."

She nods and bites her lip and returns to her magazine. "Good," she tells him.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: not mine

A/N: I called out of work today and wrote this. Well, I called out because I'm sick, this chapter is just a result.

John had been gone for three days and she missed him like an amputee missed a removed limb. She would wake up in the middle of the night or walk in from her shift at the hospital and look around in confusion when she found that he wasn't sprawled haphazardly on his side of the bed, snoring lightly next to her or perched on the open window sill of the living room, melting glass into little figurines for her. Then she would suddenly realize with a pang and a lurch that he was gone and had been for one, two, and now three days. And would be for another two.

The subject had been broached at the 8th monthly dinner, somewhere in the range of their 11th month together (the fact the one year was quickly approaching wasn't lost on her, but she refused to let herself think he would make anything of it. Honestly, if she wanted something momentous, she wouldn't be with him at all). Bobby kept pausing and generally looked ashamed of himself the entire time he made his case and eventually Kitty had to finish the proposal for him.

"It's just a fishing trip, Johnny," she said with exasperation. "You know, male bonding and all that. All I'm saying is: go out into the woods, catch some damned fish, beat the hell out of each other for all I care. Just come home in one piece and for the _love of God_, resolve some of your issues."

There really was no getting out of it, Marie had known. Even though she had the feeling the trip had less to do with conflict resolution and much, much more to do with whatever John had refused Storm the week prior. She's pretty sure John knew it to.

But he agreed and she supported him like a proper little girlfriend and she watched him with amused eyes as he struggled to figure out what to pack for a fishing trip that wasn't really about fishing.

"Is this where I start making inappropriate _'Brokeback Mountai_n' references?" she giggled out. His only response was a fained glare before he got up and tackled her into their bed.

"What are you doing!" she squealed.

He laughed so genuinely she felt something profound shift in her stomach and she wondered why she hadn't seen it sooner. _He's happy. I'm happy._ "Proving how wrong those references would be."

That was three days ago.

But even now she still feels his presence like a phantom hand at her back. He's scent, grass and fireplace, is in their bed and in the shower. When she turns on the TV, it's still on ESPN. His dirty clothes are everywhere but the hamper and she trips over his ratty running shoes whenever she stumbles to the bathroom. Sometimes she thinks that if she turns around fast enough, she'll catch him standing there, grinning and flicking open his lighter seductively. But just like a war veteran who reaches down to rub an aching leg, there's nothing there to bring her comfort.

And that's why it takes her several seconds to understand that there is something very wrong with the noises coming from the kitchen.

She doesn't bother with pants. She's remained in top fighting condition even though she's not a part of the squad anymore, and a carefully aimed swing to someone's head with a baseball bat works just as well without bottoms as with. She just barges into the room, scuffed Louisville Slugger at the ready, completely unprepared for the sight of Bobby standing at her stove top making tea, at least for all appearances. She starts to say something to the effect of a blunt, ' _What the fuck?_' but there's something off about him that strikes her immediately.

He's not as tall as he was the last time she saw him. His muscles aren't as defined. His hair is shorter and his clothes are all wrong. Then it dawns on her like a cool, chilling wave that rises from her feet. He looks seventeen.

She lowers the baseball bat in says in a voice that betrays all her fear, "Shouldn't you be out convincin' school girls to run away to train stations or somethin'?"

Bobby chuckles condescendingly and pairs it with the home boy grin of his that used to make her knees weak. The combination leaves her nauseous.

"I made tea." He steps forward to hand her a mug but pauses when she recoils, readjusting her grip on the bat, and shrugs, placing the ceramic cup on the counter.

"If I wanted to kill you, Rouge, you'd be dead already," he tells her, looking modest and vicious at the same time.

She shivers. "Excuse me if that's not really a comfort. How do I know you're not like, I don't know, a killer whale, you know?"

Bobby tilts his head to the side and shoots her that beaming smile again and nods with approval, "Playing with their prey before they eat it, you mean?" Marie nods and it's almost a relief when Mystique finally sheds her teenage Bobby guise and stands there in her natural form. Maybe it's all in her head, but after her last comment, it's like she's passed some kind of test. Like Mystique has decided to cut her some slack and tone down the intimidation as long as Marie knows she wouldn't last a minute in a fight with the woman. All the threat has fled the situation. Mystique gracefully hops up to sit on the edge of the counter and sips her tea. Marie follows suit at the table, awkwardly balancing her weapon against the side of her chair.

"If this is about the X-men, I don't know anythin'; I haven't been a part of the team since I started nursin' school."

"It's not," the older women says simply. The detached part of Marie's brain that is not working overtime to come up with a way to get the infamous Raven Darkholme out of her apartment as quickly as possible marvels at the surrealistic nature of the scene. _Drinking tea. Black tea. Drinking black tea with Raven Darkholme in the middle of the night whileI'm wearing nothing but one of John's faded band tees and underwear._

"Then this is about John?"

Mystique cocks her head and studies Marie in a disturbingly reptilian manner. She gets the impression that the only reason she is still alive is because the shape shifter still finds her somewhat interesting.

"He loves you," she states matter of factly.

Mystique's words are like an electric shock, the unaffected piece of Marie's mind finally snaps back into place with the rest of her consciousness. The setting is no longer surreal, but sharply focused, like cure needles along her back. She swears she can even hear her blood travel through the tiny capillaries of her eyes.

John loves her. She thinks that she probably knew that already, but when she looks back on this moment she's never quite sure. No, he had never said it, but he showed it. He proved it. He never ran away. He stuck around. He held her as she cried every three months when she tore her heart past her ribs, wrung it out a few times, and then shoved it back inside her chest.

"You broke into my home wearing the face of my ex just to tell me that?" Marie whispers

"I did."

"Can you please respond with somethin' more than two or three words, Ma'am?" Mystique sends her an annoyed look at the usage of the word 'Ma'am,' but obliges her anyway.

"When he was with us, when I trained him, we would spar. I would be someone else so he could become accustomed to fighting that person without...hesitation." She doesn't need to specify who she would impersonate. Marie grimaces at the thought, but is somewhat comforted by the fact that John needed to practice battling his former allies before he could actually do it.

"But he would never fight you. When I was you, he would always walk away. He didn't even try to make up excuses like he sometimes did when I was the Iceman. He would simply walk away. That's when I knew it wasn't the life for him."

"Will you show me?" Marie doesn't know why she asks. She doesn't think she really wants to know." Will you show me how you looked for him?"

Mystique's lips turn into a small frown and if Marie didn't know any better, she'd think that the shape shifter hadn't expected that response. But she slowly slips off the counter top and lithely walks to distance between her and the younger girl. In an instant she's kneeling next to Marie in the shape of herself as a teen, complete with green trench coat with the hood down and white gloves with little pearls on the cuffs.

"Why did you leave?" the voice is pitched perfectly, a little higher than her voice now, the southern lilt a little thicker. "Weren't we enough for you, Johnny? Me an' Bobby, we just wanted to take care of you. Johnny, come back with me, everyone will forgive you. Please Johnny, just let me take care of you. Ah...Ah think Ah love you, Pyro."

It's too much for Marie to take, she refuses to cry and she refuses to tell Mystique to stop, but something in her face alerts the assassin that this act is over. Mystique moves back a few paces and shifts quickly into her blue skin.

"If you've said what you needed to say, I think it's time for you to leave." Marie murmurs, quite obviously distraught.

Mystique doesn't respond, she simply changes into an unremarkable looking blonde woman and turns to leave. She stops at the doorway and says,

"He can be everything you want him to be. You both can have all of it, and I mean all of it. But you're going to have to fight for every inch he gives you. You're going to have to be in this for him, and only him."

"Done." Marie whispers.

"And if I even get the smallest impression that you're going to fuck him over..." Mystique swivels her head around, her eyes flashing bright yellow before changing back to a totally ordinary brown.

"Killer whale?"

"Killer whale."

_And I thought my mother would be hard to deal with._


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: no mine

A/N: This chapter killed me. It's not even as long as the others and it took me days to write. I can say that I'm pretty satisfied with it.

He decides that trying to sleep is a waste of time and mentally congratulates himself, rather sarcastically, on being able to decide on something at all. Because making up his mind about things hasn't been his forte as of late. He rolls out of bed and senses a shift in her breathing that tells him that she's still awake but doesn't want him to know. Doesn't want him to know she knows he's getting out of bed. Because if he knows she's awake, then they'll have to talk about what happened today. And neither of them wants to talk about it, seeing as it's already keeping them both from sleep.

He knows there is no going back to the way they were yesterday. He knows that something big and impenetrable has appeared without warning, settling itself in between them and the past, the way things used to be. The day before with its quiet peace and comfort and stability. This is new, this is scary, this is unknown territory. The teenage boy inside of him that still fears adulthood and commitment and the dark, shady halls of the mansion at night wonders why he hasn't packed his bag and bolted by now. That's the natural thing to do; it's what his instincts are screaming. But the larger, louder, and calmer part of him that _is_ an adult and _is_ committed and now relates the halls of the school with reconciliation and champagne realizes that he _loves her_ and _needs he_r and that running would be near the stupidest thing he ever does. Especially if the Wolverine takes up his trail.

It's not that he doesn't want to be here. He just wants some answers. He just wants to know what the hell he's supposed to do.

He decides to breathe in and breathe out and take it from there.

He caught her, disheveled and rushed, as she walked quickly and fluidly into their apartment somewhere in the early afternoon. Small paper bag in one hand. Straight to the bathroom. He figured it was that kind of business. The kind of business that meant he'd be keeping his hands to himself for the next four to six days. But then five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. The toilet flushed a few times but he never heard the shower start or rustling in the cabinets or any other tell tale signs that signaled she was doing one of the normal bathroom approved activities.

She came out several minutes after he stopped keeping track, in the vicinity of half an hour and mumbled something along the lines of stopping by the clinic for paperwork concerning her CRNA certification. He didn't think to stop her.

In the trash can in the bathroom, where he was so used to seeing his dull razors and cure needles and empty rolls of toilet paper, where three opened home pregnancy tests. He couldn't bring himself to look close enough to see the results.

When she came home a few hours later, she looked like she couldn't decide if she wanted to sleep for days or get mind numbingly drunk. She shuffled in with her purse clutched to her chest and toed her sandals off with violent force. She looked over at him, where he had been sitting in shock and gripping terror since she had left and uttered two words:

"False positive." The cure has traces of hCG in it. It fooled the Error Proof Test.

_Fucking error proof my fucking ass_, he thinks. _How does this feel to women who really wanted their fake babies?_ Then the thought that maybe, just maybe, she had wanted it to be true, stabs its way into his guts and his skin starts to crawl with panic and nervousness.

What if she had really been pregnant? What if the levels of Human Chorionic Gonadotropin in the cure had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that there was a little cluster of cells in her belly growing into something that looked an awful lot like a person? A person that was half him and half her.

Would they have kept it? Would she have even let him have a say? Would he have to marry her? _Do I want to marry her?_ He can't decide on any of those things. He doesn't know the answers.

He decides to breathe in and breathe out and take it from there.

One Year and Nine Months. That's how long they have been together. Eight Cures. Nineteen Dinners. Twenty-one Months. A couple of grating visits to Mississippi and a handful of bruising run-ins with the father figure that is Logan. Fights and make ups and slammed doors and cool sheets, it all bleeds together as he sits on their couch, the location of so many of they break downs and build ups, that he can't separate any one memory into a clear picture. All of this, maybe lost, because she's not actually pregnant.

She wanted the baby. He can see that now. It's clear in the way she didn't speak and looked so tired and refused to let him touch her when they climbed into bed. She wanted the baby because it's in her nature as a woman and a caregiver and a daughter of the south to want a family with the man she loves, even if there are no front porches with rocking chairs and tall glasses of iced tea.

The red numbers on the cable box read 5:18 AM when he hears the door to the bedroom open and can feel a gentle puff of air cross his face from the movement of it. She kneels down in front of him and he flicks on the table lamp so they can look at each other.

Past her squint as she adjusts to the sudden illumination of the room, he can detect fear in her eyes. She's scared that whatever has placed itself between them and yesterday has now grown between the two of them as well.

"We would have figured it out," he says and reaches to touch her cheek.

"But is it what you would have wanted?" she questions anxiously.

"I told you I wasn't running anymore," he responds.

"That's not an answer, John! I don't want it if you don't want it too!"

He sees the same unflinching honesty in her steady gaze that he saw the night they drank and argued in the small pub six blocks down all those months ago and he knows she means it. She would give up everything her insides and instincts tell her she wants just because he doesn't.

And so he decides, without any sarcasm and uncertainty, that that kind of sacrifice shouldn't be made by someone who already gives up her soul every three months so he can touch her while she's naked. He decides that now is the time to be adult and committed and totally without fear._ I do want to marry her._

"I want it too."

_Oh my God, what am I going to do_, he means it. He wants it so much his chest aches from it.

"But let's, you know, I'd like to make an honest woman out of you first."

She giggles with relived tension and relief.

"I'll want a real proposal too, soon, you know," she reminds him as she gets up and settles next to him on the couch. "But you don't need to worry about that right now."

He decides to breathe in and breathe out and take it from there.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: not mine.

A/N: Something of a filler chapter before we get to the wrap up. It was awkward to write this considering the fact that I just finished a Kyro fic (shameless plug, go read it). I'm fascinated with Kitty as a character, how no matter what it seems she always left with the short stick. One of the things I'm really trying to get across with this fic is that none of these people or realtionships are perfect, even the Bobby/Kitty ship that looks so flawless on the surface. Anyway, sorry for the rambling...

It was an odd request but John had gotten so used to those over the past year that it didn't really register until he was in the cab heading down town. Marie was at work and it wasn't entirely unusual for him to be missing when she got home in the afternoons, so it wasn't really a concern of his that she'd suspect something underhanded was going on.

_Underhanded?_ Where did that word come from? There was nothing wrong about going to get lunch with an old friend without telling your girlfriend, was there? No, especially when that old friend also so happened to be the wife of your best friend. Or did that make it worse? _Why did she ask me to not tell Marie or Bobby about this meeting?_ Why any of this?

He doesn't know, which is another irritating trend that's picked up recently, the total lack of satisfactory answers when it comes to the dealings of his own life. He doesn't like loss of control. He doesn't like unwanted ignorance. He plants his feet on the grimy floor of the cab and watches as colorful entities smear past him in his periphery. It's all blur and smudge and unclear and he likes that. He thinks it's fitting.

One of John's most prominent and well known qualities is the fact that whenever he becomes unsure and uncomfortable, he turns to his most developed ability. While the masses would assume that means he pulls out the shark lighter so many have grown to fear and proceeds to throw flames, they'd be incorrect, but no more safe. It comes own to arrogance and sarcasm and something thatinchesfrighteningly close to pure and undiluted misanthropy.

"Listen, I know you're going to tell me that you're leaving Bobby for me and I know that you think I'm going to be surprised, but I'm totallynot. To be perfectly honest, Pussy cat, this has probably been coming down the pipes for a while."

Kitty rolls her eyes and marvels at how John can manage to be exasperating and yet annoyingly charming before he's even fully in the diner booth. She sighs and signals to the waitress that they are ready to order now that her company is here.

"Will you shut up, John?" she asks in a hushed voice, hoping he'll copy her tone, "This is serious business."

"I know it is!" he scoffs. "And while you are a lovely young women and I'm sure you have many wonderful qualities, I'm just not going tobreak Marie's heart for you."

Kitty laughs thinly and is still trying to think of a response when the waitress returns with her pad and jots down that they'll both have the club sandwich. Coffee for John, water with lemon for Kitty.

"So really, Kitty, what's this serious issue that we need to discuss, the thing that I can't tell Marie were talking about?"

"Have you given any thought at all to how your going to propose to her?" she blurts out before he's completely finished his statement.

John looks at her pointedly and shakes his head with disbelief. "How is it that you know what's going on in everyone's lives, even though some of that shit is supposed to be private?"

"I listen." she answers easily,

"Marie and I only talked about marriage a week ago."

"I listen _really well_," she responds just as effortlessly.

Coffee and water appear at the table and they both pause the way people having anxious conversations tend to whenever they realize they're in public. The wait staff representing the least of their worries when it comes to someone overhearing.

Kitty looks up at John and realizes how it might seem to the employees of the diner. She was a nervous wreak before he had arrived, twisting napkin after napkin into shreds before dropping them far less than inconspicuously under the table. It probably looked like she was waiting for her drug dealer. Or she was about to break up with her boyfriend. Or that she was having an affair. _Oh my God_, she thinks about John's jocular comments as he came in, _It does look like we're having an affair._

But she pushes those thoughts out of her head and takes a couple sips of her water so she can collect herself before blazing forward with the subject. Besides, she's pretty sure the workers at this shit hole have seen things far worse than adultery. Her water tastes like dirt.

"I just want to know what you're going to do, Johnny. And before you say it, no, I'm not just being nosy. I know you don't want to hurt her-"

"Glad to see I finally proved that one," he interjects sarcastically.

"-_But_, women are strange, things that you don't think are going to be hurtful are. And it's usually the shit that you don't see that hurts the most."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," John says softly.

Kitty looks down at the table, noticing a small patch of light that the filthy windows and blinds create and thinks about a line from _Franny and Zooey_. She can't remember how it goes exactly but she knows it has to with Franny looking at the same thing and wanting to do nothing more than crawl into that tiny piece of sunshine and lay forever. Kitty understands. She thinks that John probably knows how the passage goes and opens her mouth of ask him, but then close it again. She rubs the bridge of her nose and mutters, "More or less."

"Listen Kitten, I know your heart's in the right place here, but Marie and I are none of your business."

"Yes, you are," she states with resolve and certainty, "Or really Rouge is. She became my business the minute she forgave me for what happened...with Bobby. She was...better than me. If the roles had been reversed, I would have scratched her eyes out. Even though they were broken up already, it was...I don't know. I can't say it was _wrong_ because I love him and he loves me and we're married, it wasn't just some fling! But I know she probably felt like I betrayed her and our friendship by being with him but...she _forgave_ me. And I didn't deserve it! God, I know that! I'm just going to have to do everything I can to earn it. And that, Johnny Boy, makes you my business by proxy. So get used to it."

John had never seen so much resolve in the petite,normally stoic and calm woman in front of him, at least not since Alcatraz. But God, they had just been kids then.Why hadn't he _realized_, really given any thought to how much it had to of hurt her all those years ago? Not the battles and the bloodshed, but the pining after the one guy who was completely off limits. She had to have known someplace inside of herself that in the end, it would come down to being with the man she loved or breaking the most basic rule of friendship: No touching your friend's ex. No doubt it was a hard decision to make. And John has to admit he respects her for making it, sticking with it, and trying her damnedest to have it work out for the best.

But a lot of guilt had to be involved. And John Allerdyce counts himself as an expert on two things in this world: Guilt and Fire.

"That sounds fair," he finally mumbles into his coffee cup.

Kitty exhales slowly and John can tell she's about to say something rehearsed, whatever message she had been planning to give when she scheduled this clandestine luncheon.

"Bobby asked me to marry him here. At this diner, in this booth. We were eating breakfast and where about to shop for a new microwave. He killed our last one when he was half asleep and threw a Pop Tart, foil wrapper and all into our old one," she shakes her head and her expression becomes pensive, like she's trying to fully grasp a memory that's faded into something too slippery to get a solid grip on.

"I don't even remember what we were eating. He just looked up from the paper and asked me to marry him. It was totally spur of the moment, he didn't even have the ring yet."

"It sounds nice." John tells her sincerely, smiling a lopsided grin.

"It was, I guess," she looks up at him and he can see more guilt swimming just under the surface of her face, hidden by practice and commitment and love.

"John, promise me you'll never tell Bobby what I'm about to say." He nods his ascent.

"It was disappointing. It was...all wrong for me. It hurt. I don't want to sound petty or who knows, like some kind of ungrateful bitch, but it hurt, I thought he knew me better than that. I know it's cliche, but I'm the kind of girl who spent every Valentine's Day and New Years and anniversary we had on the edge of my seat, waiting for him to pull out this ring and have it be something romantic and memorable. Marie deserves that, the very best. And so do you. So just, give it some thought, ok? Make it right for both of you. Not just...convenient."

They eat their sandwiches in companionable quiet, interrupting the silence occasionally to ask questions about the others life, careful not to touch on anything too personal, as they both feel enough of that had been going on for one lunch. They go ahead and schedule the next monthly dinner while they're at it, coming to an unspoken agreement that while this meal was innocent for all purposes, it's probably better that they never tell their significant others about it and avoid repeating the activity again at all costs.

When they get up to leave, Kitty insisting on footing the whole bill since she was the one who made John schlep all the way downtown to eat at a greasy spoon diner, John hugs Kitty a little bit longer and harder than they usually do, and Kitty lets him even though she's still paranoid about the appearance of infidelity.

"You aren't a bad person for wanting what you want, Kitten. Don't feel guilty, it's just..." he searches for the words to describe how pointless and exhausting guilt can be as they pull away from each other and when he meets her gaze again, he hopes she can see how much he wishes this burden wasn't something that gave the two of thema heavy connection.

"I know," she whispers back.

But John is not Bobby, he has the ring ready. He calls Marie's father to ask for his daughters hand like tradition stipulates and tries to shake the nagging feeling that he's going about this the wrong way. He hangs up before anyone answers. He thinks again and then redials the phone, waiting with even more anxiety than before for Logan to pick up. The answer is a gruff 'Hell no,' before he hears the line go dead. John calls back every night for a week and a half, getting answers that range from a feral growl to a simple 'Fuck you.' Eventually the Wolverine gives in and gives his blessing, which honestly means more to John than if a thousand clones of Marie's biological father granted him the same.

He wakes her up a few weeks later in the middle of night because he can't sleep and he's bored and somehow he thinks that fits in with the tone of their relationship. He gets the ring out from behind his copy of _Breakfast of Champions _on the bookshelf, where he knows she knows it is and shakes her awake gently.

"What is it, John?"

"Marry me."

"What?" she asks thickly, her voice clogged by sleep. He turns on the small lamp on the bedside table and sits crossed legged on the comforter next to her.

"I love you."

"I love you, too," she responds, sounding dazed by the sudden onslaught of events.

"I know that some girls want big, you know," he gestures emphatically to try and get his point across, "things for their proposals, but that's not me and...you love me. And I, I couldn't think of a better place than here, in this bed, in this tiny ass apartment where you've let me start this new life with you where I'm safe and welcome and forgiven again. You make me _sane_ and good and worth sticking around for. You'd have my children and take me to weddings I'm not invited to and understand that I can't go back there, back to the mansion in Westchester, not like that, not as a soldier. You know all the things that I've done and you tell me that it's ok and that you forgive me and Jesus, I don't know why but I _believe_ you when you say that to me. You're not perfect and I'm far from it but we're pretty fucking close when you put us together. I _love_ you, you crazy, sad, cured, beautiful, mutant woman and I'm asking you to marry me."

"Yes," Marie breathes.

_That was perfect_, Marie thinks as John kisses her.

He makes it right for both of them.


	8. Chapter 8

disclaimer: not mine

A/N: This is it, last chapter. This story was the most ambitious undertaking I've ever attempted and I'm sad and relieved to see it completed. Thank you to everyone whose kept with this fic and a special thanks to Mrs. St. John Allerdyce, freakochick, yana, Chica de los ojos cafe, and of course, The 42, for your constant support.

They make a deal with each other, and he guesses it's pretty fair. She wants the ceremony to take place at the mansion, in the same little chapel that united their best friends two years earlier. So he let's her have that and in exchange she doesn't make him invite his family, at least his biological one. Raven Darkholme is among the first guests to R.S.V.P. Marie doesn't want to know how he still has a current address for her.

They make it a point to not invite Bobby to the wedding. The invitation is addressed only to Katherine Pryde-Drake. They know they will both get a laugh out of the absurdity of the gesture. Only her copy is fitted with the last line 'Plus One welcome, so make it count' at the bottom. Showing up uninvited to his wedding is the only indiscretion not squared between the two men. In the end, civility is such a small thing that takes them such a long time to achieve. But once that is accomplished, it's a fairly easy road to friendship. He knows things between him and Bobby will never be as strong as they were before, the unconditional trust can't be reborn, but trust is there none the less and he's grateful for that.

Many of Marie's family members aren't as pleased with the situation as he would like, but neither of them are surprised. During the few times they visited her home in Meridian the Welcome Wagon was generally sparse, rude, and altogether pretended to be oblivious to John as much as they could get away with. Only her parents and a favorite cousin agree to attend.

He sees her face fall every time an envelope baring a 'Sorry, we'll be out of town on that date,' or 'Unfortunately we can't travel that far at this time,' arrives in the mail. His prize rejection is from her great-aunt who lives in Jackson, 'I'm sorry Marie, maybe I can make it next time.'

"Next time?" she shakes her head. "What? Next time I get married or next time I ask her to put down the gin for a few hours." She says it aloofly, before violently throwing the card into the trash, but he can see her wipe away a couple of unintended tears when she thinks he's not looking.

"We can always elope," he muses hopefully.

She turns and looks at him pointedly, "We're doin' this right, John. I don't care if no one shows up, we're doin' this right." He knows it's his fault that none of her blood dare come up to New York, so he let's her have that one too.

The evening before the wedding she spends the night in a hotel with Jubilee who gets her raucously drunk off of everything in the mini-fridge and they both cry shamelessly while watching 'Beaches.' It takes four tries and sixteen rings for Kitty to answer the phone when they decide to call her a two AM. She's there in twenty minutes and the three woman end up sitting on the balcony drinking copious amounts of water and coffee and divulging secrets locked inside since high school until the sun rises.

"You know, I'll never really stop envying you." Jubilee confesses while Kitty's inside gathering pajama worthy articles of clothing.

"For what?"

"For being the girl who had nothing," she whispers, "And somehow you got _everything_. How did you do that?" she asks with conviction.

"I don't know," is the only answer Marie can give._ I don't know_.

John spends that night blowing up empty liquor bottles in the public park a few blocks away. He doesn't know why and he decides not to think about it too hard.

The ceremony is a success, by their standards at least. She starts to cry before the wedding march begins to play, just from the look on her father's face.

He wants to cry when he sees her at the far end of the chapel, because she looks so bright it makes his chest feel stretched, just knowing that he's the cause of that happiness. He actually does allow himself one tear, half way through their vows, when he realizes the bouquet she's holding is a mixture of magnolias, the state flower of Mississippi, and golden wattles, in honor of his Australian heritage. They don't match at all and the combined smell makes his nose twitch, but the sight of them bundled together moves him in a way he doesn't understand.

Before he says 'I do,' he whispers so softly that only she can hear, "I'm not running away, ever," so that the promise he made her before is now an unbreakable oath.

A fist fight breaks out at the reception, which they both think, for lack of a better term, is totally awesome, considering who it's between. Apparently there was some kind of cheating involved in the catching of the bouquet on the part of Marie's cousin and Jubilee decides to take it upon herself to rectify the situation. She spends the rest of the party holding the flowers with one hand and an icepack to her swelling cheek bone with the other, beaming blissfully at everyone who stops to offer their congratulations.

"And who are you?" Marie asks an unfamiliar woman at the bar.

"Who me?" she asks innocently, "I'm John's aunt, his Aunt Misty."

Marie blinks a few times, embarrassed that she couldn't sense who it actually was by the fact that neither her nor her new husband recognized the face.

"You should go say 'hi' to John, it'll mean a lot to him that you're here."

"I will," Mystique tells her in her natural voice, "But I wanted to ask you something. When you have a child, it'll probably be a mutant." Marie nods, this was something she and John had talked about, that possibility. "When you do, will you…let me see it?"

"Of course," she replies slowly, "That would mean a lot to John too, it would mean a lot to me."

They do have a child, three years later. A boy, they name him 'Scott.'

After two more they're joined by his sister, Xavier.

"Xavier is not a girl's name!" Marie argues from her hospital bed in the maternity wing.

"You got to name Scott!" John shoots back, "You said I could name this one!"

"But it's not a girl's name!"

"Listen, Kitty and Bobby already took 'Jean' and 'Charles!' I figured we should snap up 'Xavier' before Storm pops out whatever illegitimate thing she's having!" At that the baby begins to sob shrilly from her location in Marie's arms.

"See, she agrees with me."

"I like it too, Daddy," Scott adds from his seat on the foot of the bed.

"Good man," John replies proudly.

"What does illegitimate mean?"

"Ask your mother."

It's six o'clock in the morning when they're woken up by an extremely excited eleven year old Scott jumping onto their bed.

"Look what I can do!" he squeals. The adults watch with amusement as his brow furrows with concentration. It happens slowly, but in a matter of seconds, a perfect double of Storm's son is sitting where their boy had been. He's quicker to change back, still too inexperienced to hold the form for more than a few moments.

"Scott! That's amazing! Your Aunt Misty will be so proud!" John shouts, grabbing the boy by the shoulders and giving him a solid shake.

Marie groans and puts her head in her hands. "Oh yeah, Aunt Misty will be _real_ proud."

Xavier's a late bloomer, she doesn't begin to control her telepathy until she's almost sixteen.

"I told you I got the name right," John whispers to his wife, not even attempting to hide his self-satisfaction.

"You got it all right," she murmurs back.

They still go on monthly dinners with Bobby and Kitty, dragging along their children whenever they're home from terms at the mansion. Mystique comes over for every Thanksgiving and practices voice imitation with Scott. They alternate between Mississippi and Westchester for Christmas, staying at the mansion with Logan, Storm, and their son, which John thinks will never stop being awkward.

But it works, they make it work.

Every year they celebrate their wedding anniversary at the little pub a few blocks away, drinking beer and whiskey.

Everntually she convinces him once and for all that he is forgiven.

And he never runs away.


End file.
